


Alone, Again

by Loser_Love



Category: IT (Movies - Muschietti), IT - Stephen King
Genre: IT Chapter Two Fix-It, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, M/M, Pre-IT Chapter Two (2019), canon typical gore and violence, implied childhood stenbrough
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-03
Updated: 2021-02-03
Packaged: 2021-03-14 23:21:22
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,582
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29179410
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Loser_Love/pseuds/Loser_Love
Summary: The Losers are back, and have been isolated by Pennywise. They were together, prepared to fight, and now Stan is alone, again.(How Stan's individual scene where he was separated in the sewers as an adult would've gone if Stephen King wasn't a coward, maybe.)
Relationships: Bill Denbrough/Stanley Uris
Kudos: 6





	Alone, Again

Stan’s head felt heavy as he hit the ground. Eyes fluttering open, the tired man realized he was no longer in the disgusting cavern with his friends. Alone, again. It seemed he wasn’t even underground anymore, damp grass pricking uncomfortably against his ankles and beginning to soak into the bandages wrapped tightly on his arms. Infact, his bandaging felt uncomfortably wet. Worried about infection, Stan pulled himself up into a sitting position and held his arm ahead of him, propped on his knee. Blood, the grass and mud were spritzed with a dew of it, red soaking up his once-clean gauze. He bit the inside of his cheek lightly, trying to make a sensation distracting enough that he wouldn’t become nauseous. 

“Stan the Man, how kind of you to join us,” the all too familiar voice chimed. Stan scrambled to his feet, the vertigo briefly setting in and making his head rush. Immediately, he saw It. The clown, the portrait, not both separately, but a combination of them; it was more so the flutist, but it wasn’t an even split of the two. “You nuh-never wuh-were good with fuh-follow through, Stan,” It said, “Even when you swuh-swuh-swear on it to buh-Bill.” The canter of It’s speech and the tone clearly mocked Bill Denbrough, his close friend and someone he had loved when he was young, and admittedly, now. Birds shot up into the air as if stirred in a field, but they were not there before, Stan would have noticed; black birds, small ones. The creature’s face began to distort, making his skin crawl as it shrunk and slithered into the form of Bill Denbrough, about the age of 17. 

“Yuh-you were really juh-just going to leave us, tuh-to die alone, Stuh-Stanny?” the mimic whined, arms crossed, looking a mixture of scornful and hurt. Stan stared at the form that nearly mirrored his once-boyfriend, fidgeting with the now completely soaked gauze uncomfortably as they slouched to reveal freshly stitches. The being shifted, pointing at his arm, “Yuh-you’re a cuh-coward yuh-you know, yuh-you’re selfish too.” “I’m— I know,” Stan murmured quietly, tears beginning to blur his vision, “But, you’re not real.” The fake boy’s features distorted just slightly so that he looked even more infuriated than it was possible to portray initially. Stan took a step back and his heart dropped as he felt the ground no longer beneath him, “Fuck,” he whispered hoarsely. The birds began to spin around, the fluttering, dark mass swarmed around his head, swallowing him in black feathers and raspy, distorted bird calls that sounded more like screams then any bird could. He leaned forward, trying to catch his balance in the last moment but the edge he was at gave way. He slipped into the dark mass, he took in a deep breath and closed his eyes, preparing himself for impact, wherever that was. Then, abruptly someone grabbed onto his hand, yanking him forward roughly into their chest. He screamed, eyes shooting open.

Back in the chasm, Bill holds him tightly. “Stuh-Stan you almost tuh-took a swan duh-dive, yuh-you scared the shu-shit out of me, snap out of it.” The accountant’s eyes darted around, taking in his surroundings, they were on an overhanging cliff just above the weird shard-like spikes that grew out from the ground below. No one else was down there, or nearby. “Stuh-Stan?” The other said as the dark blonde curled into the other’s embrace, trembling, “Yuh-you’re bleeding, really buh-bad.” “It’s not mine,” Stan managed to speak, shifting uncomfortably as Bill took his arm with a gentle sigh into his hand. “Nuh-no Stan, some stitches cuh-came undone, love.” His heart skipped a beat briefly, “What?” “Stuh-stitches came undone, Stuh-Stan, here let me-” Bill took the seam of his flannel shoulder and began to pull, ripping away the sleeve carefully, “Huh-hold out your arm.” 

The intrusive thoughts set in, his ears began to ring as he held out the arm. He couldn’t help but stare at Bill’s one missing sleeve versus the fully intact one, pristine, oddly clean, even. Infact, his entire body was carrying an amount of asymmetry, his stance was slanted so the weight was on one foot, his jeans were torn but only on one leg, his flannel was torn at the edge, fraying it only on the right. Messy hair, half flipped collar, his undershirt was stained with something that made the charcoal color a slightly darker black, his face was— his face was different. The flannel began to wrap tightly around his arm as he quickly planted his hands on Bill and shoved him away, heart pounding, lungs beginning to heave. “Stuh-Stan? What’s wrong?” his voice held a frustration Stan was familiar with just by tone. “Just give me a second,” he retorted, closing his eyes and trying to breathe. It was all out of his control, he couldn’t just fix it all right now it would be nonsensical, dangerous, even. He looked down at the other soaked gauze and back at the flannel on his right hand, it seemed to emit a dark, angry aura. His ears were ringing. He ripped off the flannel and the gauze, trembling as he did so before pulling his arms around himself, hugging himself like he used to as a child. He adjusted, pulling his cardigan sleeves down so it would cover the scarring and stitches. 

“Stuh-Stan! You— Don’t do that you’re stuh-still bluh-bleeding!” The other approached, scrambling to take the flannel sleeve so it wasn’t contaminated by the mossy, rock cliff surface. Stan opened his eyes to look back at the brunette, his skin crawling as he huffed out more air, everything was wrong right now, is that why he looked wrong? He looked like Bill but he didn’t. Sometimes that happened when they were younger, Stan was sure that his breakdowns made him think like that. “Oh- oh. Even stuff, right?” Bill exclaimed quietly, looking himself over and attempting to make right. First, adjusting his outfit, then beginning to rip at the other sleeve. “I’m sorry,” Stan murmured hoarsely, “I didn’t mean to freak out.” His breathing slowed as time seemed to as well, he watched everything fall back into place neatly, well, as neatly as it could in this hell-scape of a location. “Nuh-no, it’s okay I knuh-know how that stuff can guh-get for you—Wuh-well I don’t _know_ buh-but—” “I know, Bill, thank you.” 

Bill took his hand gently and guided him away from the cliff, “Yuh-you’re okay.” Stan smiled warmly, but the warmth immediately drained from his body as Bill lifted his hand. He scrambled back, flinching heavily enough that he stumbled onto the slimy bedrock, flashes of his father passing through his head, “D-don’t.” He looked up at Bill, taking a deep breath, “Sorry I— impulse, y’kn—” He cut himself off, Bill looked furious, white knuckled, shaking fury. “Yuh-you really thuh-thought I was going to huh-hit you? Stuh-Stan wuh-why the fuck would I hit yuh-you?” he took a deep breath, “Do I look like your dad to you?” The last statement took him off guard, no stutter, a deeper tone. 

“No, Bill, but—” “No, Stan, no buts. What do you have to say for yourself?” The voice was no longer Bill’s. Donald Uris. Stan realized immediately that the illusion hadn’t ended, all hope left his heart in that instance. Donald seemed to tower over him as he sat up on the ground, “Well?” he insisted, leaning down and suddenly grabbing Stan’s ankle. He froze, the hand feeling like hot coals and needles. He could hardly speak, the pain and fear was paralyzing and muting all at once. His father leaned forward slowly, “Did you learn nothing in temple? Respect your parents, boy. Speak up.” “You- you aren’t—” “I am.” “You’re not him, he’s dead.” Stan said, trying to reason more so with himself than It. His ankle began to burn as if it were on fire and he shot his eyes down to look, immediately gagging. His father’s rotting hand, boney, withered, sore-scattered, clenched tightly on his now discolored ankle. “Stop,” Stan pleaded through tearful nausea, “I’m sorry.” The worn features of his father softened into a pleased, quiet smile, “That’s better.” He pressure left his ankle, but the pain didn’t continue to spread down to his foot, his eyes darted down to see his own flesh beginning to rot. “You’ll always have a part of me, Stanley,” Donald hummed, “No matter how hard to try to detach yourself from me.” The pain began immeasurable in a sudden spike, he drew in a sharp breath, refusing to dignify It with a response as he grabbed onto a rock that jutted out above his head, pulling himself onto his foot. The sting piqued, before completely going numb within seconds. He looked back down at his ankle, and saw bone. His foot wasn’t even there anymore, it was still on the ground where he had sat. Stan’s vision went into doubles as he began to tremble again. 

There was a scuffling of loose rocks nearby, but the shock had him paralyzed. “Stuh-Stan, Stan- We— We have to hide yuh-you’re in plain suh-sight how did you e-even—” He felt a warm hand on his shoulder and yelped, refocusing his eyes best he could. “Huh-holy fuck yuh-your foot, I—” Bill stood inches from his face, looking mortified. He shook his head and inhaled sharply, picking up the still stiff Stan in one quick motion, “Wuh-we need to guh-get out of sight.”


End file.
